


you know regular sex toys exist, right

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Masturbation, Self-Pailing, implied gamtav - Freeform, self indulgent as hell, this is just gamzee fucking himself with a literal juggling club i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:42:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23924044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: sopor slime makes gamzee horny and irrational. shenanigans ensue
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	you know regular sex toys exist, right

The day hadn't been anything special, really.

You'd dragged your feet getting out of the 'coon, relishing in the wooziness that came with sopor seeping into your hide, but you'd done it anyways. Wiped yourself off, scrawled on your paint all nice and worthy-like, and even ambled your way outside to drop a few prayers into the wide, acidic ocean. With your claws digging into the gritty sand as you loped back to your hive, you'd given more than a few cursory lookbacks in case you spotted a familiar pearl-white horn in the distance- but nothing came of it. It didn't matter much to you, really. You preferred your miracles glopped into a pie crust, with a claw hooked in the second they were shunted out of the oven. Miracles like the old goat coming back and wrapping himself proud-like around your shoulders when you spun up new rhymes of the wicked heresy- those were a wiggler's dream. You weren't that stupid.

But enough with getting your mope on. You and Tav had just kicked the wicked shit for what felt like sweeps, leaving you giddily smiling at your husktop as your pie-sticky fingers clattered away at the keys until he admitted he was hitting the 'coon. It was fairly late, after all, and he had nudged you to clamber into doped-up slumber as well; but you had shooed his advances away, telling him he needed it more than you. You weren't wrong, anyways. Just going through daily life for your best beloved left him wearier than most, having to exert much more than you ever would. Your main method of passing the hours was lolling around your hive, letting your gangly limbs sprawl over any available surface with dribbles of acidic green stained to your lips. Man, and was that green ever your motherfucking savior. 

Speaking of, you had the pitiful remainders of some miracles sat all up on your lap right now. Squinting and chirping slightly as you zoned back in to whatever the hell you'd been doing, you glanced around and felt a wash of remembering trickle its way into your pan. You'd just closed the husktop, slumped onto your hornpile with the licked-clean remnants of a pie. Feeling a rattling yawn well up in your chest, you let your jaw click open as you sink even further into the pile, a few wheezy honks startling you out of your near-slumber enough to feel what your claws were loosely wrapped around. Glancing down, you saw one of your favorite clubs- and couldn't help a slow grin from spreading across your face. Fuck, but you did love those little motherfucking things. Gave you something to occupy yourself with when the pies were still in the oven, after all. In a fluid movement, you flicked your wrist up and peered at it, lightly throwing it into the air and letting a rusty purr escape your throat when you caught it easily. No matter how many times you played around with them, it always brought you some small assurance that you WERE good at something, after all. Letting your arm sink back down into the pile, you lazily watched as you traced patterns into your leg with the tip of the club, almost seeing the messiahs in the invisible swirls. If you squinted, anyways.

So absorbed in your holy art, you nearly didn't notice the club creeping further and further up your thigh. Your smile settling into something more content, you rumbled a quiet laugh to yourself at the thought that your arm was moving of its own volition. It nearly up and felt like that, sometimes, but sopor had a tendency to make you so loose and floaty that your body seemed drawn around by invisible string. Not like your spindly limbs and highblood height didn't already give you a real motherfuckin eerie aura. You figured that was why your lusus had never let you around other wigglers. Some shit about how you ain't understanding what's wrong with you. Just needed to get a little older, and you'd figure it out. Oh, fuck. You were getting all up and zoned out again, weren't you. 

It ain't matter much. You had just been making some real righteous tribute to the messiahs on your skin, and,  
Fuck.  
With the slow, lazy circles you'd been making, in their upward crawl, the club had traced the bottom of your sheath, lightly enough that it hadn't hurt, but definitely enough to notice in... other ways. You were glad- having a tendency to bring yourself pain on accident, when the sopor was really hitting its peak in your pan. Drawing your hand back, you flush light purple at the sudden pang in your nook with the absence of the light pressure. Your gaze crawling down the club, your pan filled with thoughts of how that just wasn't right, motherfuckin heresy even, pleasing yourself when you were dedicating such a fine piece of your hide to the messiahs- then you squeeze your eyes shut, pushing those thoughts to the most sopor-soaked place in your pan. Flicking them back open, you let out a shaky breath and drag the club right over the base of your sheath again, gentle as your desperate curiosity would allow. Your lips parted slightly as you feel a pleased trill rise instinctively from your throat, the tips of your ears chilling with a deep purple. The numbing warmth of the sopor just makes every shred of pleasure deliriously motherfuckin good, tongue tracing the sharp points of your fangs while your desperation grows. You're all up and rutting against the cool, hard surface like a barkbeast in heat at this point, and you've never felt more mirth than you're finding in this shameless, depraved pleasure.

Your sharp hunger grows, and within the symphony of needy clicks and whines gracing your respiteblock you throw a brief thanks to the fact that no trolls live within miles and miles of you. Suddenly aware of a empty ache in your nook, and a writhing in your comically oversized pajama pants, you gasp and pant for breath and manage to pull the club from between your thighs. It's lightly stained with your most righteous purple, and you can tell you've soaked through the thin fabric covering your bulge at this point. Fuck it. You ain't ashamed of your body asking of you what it needs, especially if you can get the pleasure on with something so motherfuckin holy. You wriggle out of your pants, catching on your sharp hipbones as you let out an impatient hiss, and finally- _finally_ \- slide them off, letting them pool around your  
ankles at the base of the hornpile.

Your bulge immediately lashes out impatiently, as needy as you are for some kind of release as it drips cold purple all over your grubscars. Catching your breath for a minute, you look at the club- really look at it, and oh fuck. It's not like you're a small motherfucker- bigger than most, near terrifyingly so- but you ain't one to split your nook in half. Your nook actually clenches at the thought, and your pan is briefly split between your fear of getting real badly hurt while your lusus isn't home to nurse the wound, and your overwhelming need to feel stuffed to the brim by something even the messiahs would approve of. Ears twitching slightly, you try not to get your think on too hard, because when you do it sobers you up right quick, and your current situation isn't exactly the most wicked for baking up a new pie. With a shuddery breath, you go with your gut (or your nook, it's really just your motherfuckin nook) and trace the blunt end of the club at your wet and painfully empty nook, the handle loosely in your hand. And you motherfuckin _whine_ , high and pathetic, punch drunk on the sopor and the excitement of soon having something that big filling you to the point of incoherency. 

Letting your head roll back, a low rumble rises from your throat as you slowly, ever so slowly press the club into your tight nook. And for a moment it is grievously painful, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as your other hand scrabbles for purchase on the pile. And then it's near sacred, the pleasure tinging the pain ever so slowly until your body is shaking, pure overstimulation coursing through you as you sink it in to the hilt. You've never felt so goddamn miraculous, bless the messiahs, and your thoughts are seeping out of your pan more and more because you really can't motherfuckin think with that much stuffed in you. Even your bulge is thrashing more slowly, stunned at the pleasure as the rumble in your throat creeps up into a submissive trill, chirps tangled into that sound of pure need as you grind your hips down further. 

Waking from the stupor, if only a little, you're dumbfounded at how much you took, your nook stretched to its limit around everything but the end of the handle. Your nook pulses needily, reminding you that you ain't just there to look, and you use the claws still wrapped around the end and pull it out, slowly. Every nerve feels on fire, the inside of your nook aching as you start to pail yourself so slowly, other hand tracing the small bump rounding your stomach, still in awe of how full you feel. The pailing speeds up, fucking the club in and out of your nook as you writhe in pure desperation and pleasure, making the most sinful of noises with your legs spread as much as you can up and manage. Your bulge wants attention, too, but you're in another world with how good your nook is getting wrecked, and you figure you ain't need to pay it much mind, long as you can feel the burst of pleasure every time the blunt end of the club hits the very back of your nook. You're disgustingly ruined at this point, and you can't bring yourself to care- your body feels on fire, every goddamn nerve crackling as you whine and paw at the handle, trying to fuck yourself even harder. 

You can hazily hear your own needy moans and whines, the ice pooling in your groin growing more and more- your nook clenching and trying to draw it in even further- and fuck, you definitely won't be able to walk tomorrow. The build is too much and not enough, and you growl, deep and primal, the need for release painful at this point. Slamming the club in and out, your bulge twitches desperately, and you finally bring an arm up and twist it around your hand, eyes rolling back as the slightest touch brings you to the very edge. With a final keen of desperation, you're spilling all over yourself in an icy flood, tears falling freely from your eyes as your full body quivers. Broken purrs fall from your lips, feeling utterly and disgustingly spent as you pull the club out of your nook, suddenly feeling sore and empty. Your eyelids droop, the purring a constant thrumming rumble at this point as you try your best to clamber into your 'coon. 

Glancing over at the pile, you crack a small smile at the wash of purple staining the floor and the stained club right in the middle of it as your eyes close fully, dropping off into a heavy slumber.

You can clean up in the morning.


End file.
